This, in my mind, will probably take place as the second or third section of a larger work.
At night I dream of Pound at Rapallo.
Serene, overlooking a shore
that had overtaken kingdoms.
Skin like the sand.
And I dream
of becoming one with the Earth–
a single piece of glass, forgotten
as footsteps danced upon my face.
Waking as wonder as flesh turns
to wet leaves and crumbling dirt.
Now, sitting with the “Men who knew Oppen”
is like reading to the dark hum
of some stainless-steel blender.
How is it, then, that we cannot agree-
We will not agree.
(And we shall have no sane man again?)
“But-” my small voice begins, “what of clarity?”
The raven-haired fellow by the lamp
gives me a dirty look as voices, again,